Thomas Moore

Where bastard Freedom waves
Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves.

Where bastard Freedom waves
Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves.

Like a young eagle, who has lent his plume
To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom,
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Like a young eagle, who has lent his plume
To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom,
See their own feathers pluck'd, to wing the dart,
Which rank corruption destines for their heart!

From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and
that is eternity.

From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and
that is eternity.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she read more

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.

I find the doctors and the sages
Have differ'd in all climes and ages,
And two in read more

I find the doctors and the sages
Have differ'd in all climes and ages,
And two in fifty scarce agree
On what is pure morality.